Her Sister's Secret

by E. V. Seymour

  I piled everything back in the cupboard and, dragging the chair across, stepped up onto the seat so that I could reach the top shelf. Two colourfully decorated storage boxes contained photographs, scarfs and hats. I smiled as I picked out the mad fascinator that Scarlet had worn for her hen night. I didn’t bother with a plain box marked ‘Nate’s crap’. Of the bracelet, there was no sign. Nothing weird or out of place either.

  Setting the chair back, and about to head out to the landing, I spotted a navy rucksack hanging loosely on the back of the door. It wasn’t really Scarlet’s style, but I lifted it off to take a look. There was no phone in the designated zip up section and the main compartment was empty apart from a small pack of unopened tissues. Plunging a hand into an interior section, I grazed something the size of a receipt or car parking ticket and fished it out. Torn from a lined jotter, a scrap of paper, with writing on it. I stared at a London address in a hand I didn’t recognise, a name below read: ‘Charlie Binns.’ Neither meant anything to me.

  With the note in my pocket, I returned to the kitchen and sat down next to Nate.

  “No luck?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll need to close her social media accounts,” he said randomly. “Have you seen the tributes?”

  “God, so soon?” It seemed peculiar that death, a private matter, should be made public when I hadn’t even had a chance to grasp what had happened.

  “People she worked with. Lots of lovely things said about her. Your sister was uniquely beautiful, inside and out.”

  A feather of guilt sneaked along my spine. I reached out, rested my hand over his.

  “There’s going to be so much shit to deal with.” He was breathy, and his eyes were wild. “I’ll have to cancel her credit cards and then there’s the legal stuff.”

  “What legal stuff?”

  “She died intestate.”

  I blinked in ignorance.

  “Without a will,” he explained.

  “I’m sure Dad will know how to handle it.”

  Nate nodded sadly, put his glass down, scrubbed at his face with his hands. Again, the mad-eyed look. If I didn’t handle this right, I’d lose him.

  “Nate, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  He looked at me with big soulful eyes. “You might need a stronger drink.”

  Chapter 9

  “The motorcyclist was an off-duty copper with the Gloucestershire force.”

  My jaw slackened. Why it should make a difference was stupid and yet, somehow, it did.

  “Coming back from a shift and heading towards Gloucester,” Nate explained. Hence the head-on, I realised. “With both of them involved in challenging jobs, I reckon fatigue was the primary factor.”

  It would be the obvious conclusion. I shifted in my seat. The piece of paper in my pocket crackled. “What about the hire vehicle?”

  “Jeep Cherokee four by four, beast of a motor. I teased her about it.” His expression was wan. If speed was an issue, I realised that it would be in the accident report. Nate’s shoulders slumped. “Took them half-an-hour to cut her out of the wreckage.”

  I baulked. Somehow, I’d thought she was killed instantly. “My God, she was conscious?” The thought appalled me. “And the police officer?”

  “Never stood a chance,” Nate said darkly. “Apparently he was thrown twenty feet in the air on impact.”

  Blood thundered in my ears. “Was he driving too fast? Maybe he swerved onto her side of the road.” Guiltily, I remembered how I’d scoffed at my mum’s speculations suggesting something similar.

  Feeling grim at the prospect, we both fell silent. Nate was first to break. “Molly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Scarlet was drunk.”

  If Nate had produced a hammer to thwack me over the head, I couldn’t have felt more astonished. Scarlet was a classic teetotaller to the point of boring for Europe on the subject. I’d received enough lectures on what alcohol did to your physiology from her. Strangely, I don’t ever remember Scarlet reprimanding our mum, a more worthy candidate. The thought of possible ramifications made my airways narrow and tighten. “That can’t be right. She didn’t drink.”

  “A smashed bottle of vodka was found in the wreckage.”

  “So what?”

  “One of the firefighters cutting her free said he could smell alcohol on her breath.”

  “That’s ludicrous.”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “But —”

  “Look,” he said, abruptly testy, “I’ll know more after the post-mortem. Promise you won’t breathe a word?”

  “Of course.” It wouldn’t be hard. I swallowed my beer to make the point that the allegation was ridiculous.

  A cagey light entered his eyes. “When I was looking for Scarlet’s bracelet, I found a note.”

  “Yeah?” I said, pretty cagey myself. Should I tell him I already had it in my pocket?

  “From her to me. Here.” He pulled out a sheet of writing paper from underneath a cookery book and planted it in my hand. With trembling fingers, I straightened it out. Definitely Scarlet’s stylish, all loops and curls, writing. It read: Nate, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Love you, babe. S xxx

  I spiked with alarm. Did this imply suicide? “Forgiveness for what?”

  “Search me.” Nate took another pull of whisky. Quick and sharp and guaranteed to make me back off. He snatched the note off me and set it aside, out of reach.

  Surely, our row couldn’t have precipitated such a catastrophic turn of events. My blood chilled at the thought. That left another alternative: Scarlet had been in trouble somehow. But if she was, would I know? I thought we were close. Except — “Have you shown it to the police?”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to, aren’t you?”

  “Molly, the meaning isn’t clear. There’s nothing even faintly emotional about it.”

  “That’s not really an answer. The fact she left a message at all could explain why she wasn’t taking as much care on the road.” Spectral fingers dug me in the back. “Maybe she meant to do it?”

  Nate’s expression darkened. “Suicide?”

  I bit my bottom lip and nodded.

  “It’s not dated,” Nate argued. “It could have been written any time.”

  “But it might not have been. Nate, you have to tell Mum and Dad and warn them about the booze,” I hurried on.

  “Are you kidding? Think what it would do to your folks.”

  “Mum and Dad will find out anyway if the toxicology results come back positive.”

  Nate looked into my eyes with a hunted expression. “Your dad was brilliant today,” he slurred. “Identified her. Couldn’t face it, see?”

  “I know. He said.”

  “Did he?” Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “The thought of her smashed up.”

  “Try not to think about it.” Pain shot through me with fury, scorching my head. I had to concentrate on practicalities. I had to focus on the ‘why’ of it all. If I didn’t, I’d fall apart and be no good to anyone. And Nate needed me strong, Mum and Dad too. “Have you eaten? I could fix you something.”

  He took a gulp of neat, obliterating booze, by way of an answer. “Sweet of you,” he said with a crooked smile, “but this is fine.”

  “You must look after yourself, Nate. Scarlet wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

  Eyes half-closed, heavy-lidded, he turned to me with a slow expression. “Like what?”

  “Hurting. Drinking. Destroyed.”

  “Maybe, you’re wrong,” he said, with an ugly drunken expression. “Maybe she would.”

  What did Nate mean? Booze talk, I thought, and maybe there were always odd little inconsistencies in the way people behaved in the wake of sudden death, but I couldn’t ignore the remark from an experienced firefighter. I couldn’t ignore the fact that Scarlet was the safest driver I knew.

  Best to come clean.

  “I didn’t find Scarlet’s
bracelet, but I did find this.” I showed Nate the scrap of paper with the name and address scrawled on it. “Mean anything to you?”

  He stared, frowned at the name and address on the paper and made a sound similar to the half grunt half sigh Zach had issued earlier. “Charlie Binns? Never heard of him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Who the hell is he?” He sounded accusing. I spread my hands, couldn’t say. “How much do you actually know?” The tone of his voice had that nasty ‘bad news’ ring to it – strange bearing in mind the morning’s breaking headline.

  My tongue tangled in my teeth and I bit down painfully on the inside of my cheek because I was right to be suspicious. There was definitely more going on underneath the surface. Nate’s response pretty much confirmed it.

  “How well did you really know your sister, Molly?”

  Chapter 10

  He didn’t wait for a reply. “She’d been edgy and moody for a while. You must have noticed.”

  I flinched, forced myself to face the unthinkable: I’d been too obsessed by my own feelings of resentment to notice my sister’s emotional state. Didn’t make me feel good.

  “Naturally, I asked her what was wrong,” Nate continued, “but she never said. I thought it was the stress of work and suggested a weekend away. Then that conference in London came up.”

  On Critical Care, I remembered, about three weeks ago.

  “I suggested I could go with her, we could make it a long weekend, but Scarlet wasn’t keen,” Nate continued. “Used that old excuse about not mixing business with pleasure.”

  “Seems perfectly reasonable to me.”

  “Except the conference takes place later this month.”

  “What? You mean —”

  “Scarlet enjoyed a weekend away without me.”

  I stared at the writing in my hand. “She definitely went to London?”

  “According to the hotel she phoned from, but I’ve no idea who she was with. Maybe now we know,” he said, eyeing the piece of paper.

  I pressed a hand tight to my forehead. For Scarlet to break her own moral code would be massive. It would have ripped her apart. And what about a lover? Was there some guy waiting for a phone call or a visit from her that would never happen? No, it wasn’t possible, I thought firmly. No way could I believe that Scarlet would have an affair. It just wasn’t in her DNA.

  “To be charitable,” Nate said in a tone adopted by those who have right on their side, “she might have gone to London alone.”

  Which still didn’t explain what she might have been doing there. “How did she behave when she got back?”

  “Sunny as hell. Said the conference had been good. Informative, was the exact word she used.”

  “And what did she say when you pointed out the lie?”

  “I didn’t.”

  I straightened up. “Your wife goes to a bogus conference and you don’t challenge her, you don’t breathe a word?”

  “I wanted to wait it out, bide my time, see what happened.”

  In similar circumstances, I couldn’t see me keeping my mouth shut. Maybe I was unsophisticated and impetuous.

  “Certainly nothing on her phone or emails.”

  “You snooped on them?” I didn’t hold with that.

  Nate gave me a brazen look. Who are you to judge me now? His expression said. And he was right. I took a breath.

  “What’s the name of the hotel Scarlet stayed in?”

  Irritation chased across Nate’s features. “Leave it, Molly.”

  “Nate, all we have at the moment are wild guesses. I want facts. I want the truth. I need to understand why Scarlet died.”

  “There is no why. It was an accident.”

  Yes, it was. Or I thought it was. “Bu — t”

  “It won’t bring her back. It won’t do any good.”

  “Nate, don’t you want to know?”

  He sidestepped my question. “Your dad has it all under control.”

  “If you don’t tell me the name of the hotel, I’ll ask Mum.” The expression on my face assured Nate that I wasn’t bluffing, and I wasn’t giving up. With bad grace, he gave an address near Paddington train station.

  “And the room number?”

  “Molly —”

  “It might help to put your mind at rest, give you closure.”

  “That, I doubt.”

  “Please, Nate.”

  “For God’s sake, room number seventy-three.”

  The second I got home I grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped off the top and drank straight from the bottle. What seemed certain, the post-mortem would throw up the ethanol in Scarlet’s bloodstream. It might not be lorry loads of the stuff but, for a committed non-drinker, even small measures could have Dutch courage effects. If Scarlet was guilty of causing the accident, the entire constabulary of Gloucestershire would be keen to blacken her name. With everything I believed in suddenly turned upside down and inside out, I wondered what other horrors lay in wait.

  Rear on the sofa and feet parked on the coffee table, I fired up my laptop and switched to online local news in Gloucestershire. Sure enough, a factual report detailed that the police were investigating a fatal collision. The location was given, and an appeal made for witnesses to come forward with information. A later piece identified Detective Sergeant Richard Bowen as the motorcycle victim. Aged forty-two, he had an exemplary police service record and had received awards for heroism. An accompanying photograph of him dressed in uniform portrayed a sleek-looking man, not dissimilar from Nate in appearance, with a majestic smile, the picture of respectability. To my shame, it dismayed me. Already I could picture how the story would play out: courageous police officer and family man versus drunk driver. Didn’t matter that Scarlet was a nurse with a glowing reputation. Her last inexplicable act was how she would be remembered, and it would sink her. Closing my eyes tight, I prayed the post-mortem the next day would prove she was sober. Maybe Bowen was in the wrong. Driving too quickly. Taking unnecessary risks.

  Next, I tapped my way straight to Google and the name of the hotel Nate had given me. Shabby, with peeling window frames on the ground floor, the hotel in which Scarlet stayed for the non-existent conference charged less than fifty quid for a standard room. Unless the pictures were out of date, it didn’t look the best location for seduction, but the type of place where unfortunate families were given temporary B&B accommodation by the council. What on earth was Scarlet doing there?

  My phone rang. I picked up, saw it was Dad and braced myself. My father could identify a liar at fifty paces. I’d have to box clever to conceal what I knew.

  “I found out the name of the motor cyclist.” Dad told me much of what I’d already discovered. “Poor bastard left a wife and two youngsters. One of my old contacts informed me this evening,” he explained, verifying that the information came from a reliable source. “Thank God, the man wasn’t working.”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “A world of. It’s mandatory for the IPCC to be involved if one of their officers is on duty.” Independent Police Complaints Commission, I registered.

  “In case he was pursuing a suspect, or something?”

  Dad went quiet.

  “Dad?” I was sure I could hear the cogs in his brain in full motion.

  “I should have thought of it.” He spoke like he was kicking himself for being remiss.

  “Thought of what?”

  “Bowen was travelling home after a shift. If he was knackered, having worked excessive hours, the IPCC may still get involved and any investigation could take weeks.”

  And that would make a terrible situation worse, I thought in dismay.

  “Either way, it won’t be long before it hits the nationals.”

  “Really?” I was horrified. The thought of our private grief trawled through by strangers was hard to bear. That it might also provide some hack with a sensational story along the lines of ‘Drunk Nurse Kills Police Officer’ was intolerable<
br />
  I expected Dad to say something about the allegation that Scarlet was drunk. He didn’t, and, from the clipped tone, I had the strong impression it wouldn’t be wise to reveal it.

  He didn’t speak for a moment but, even on the other end of the line, I could tell he was thinking and trying to get a handle on the chain of events. “You weren’t aware of any problems? Something she was upset about that might have made her distracted?”

  I pushed every horrible thought away about the name of a mystery man scribbled on a piece of paper, the suggestion of suicide, a mysterious visit to a crappy hotel in London and the whopping lie Scarlet had told her husband. I told him I didn’t know. “How’s Mum?”

  “Exhausted. I persuaded her to take a sedative. She’s sleeping now.”

  “Dad?” I blurted out. “Do you mind if I don’t come with you and mum tomorrow?”

  “Oh,” he said, obviously taken aback.

  “Sorry. It’s —”

  “Of course, Molly, I understand.” Except he didn’t. Until seeing Nate, I’d been determined to go, wanted to, but now I had plans.

  Chapter 11

  First thing the next day, I texted Fliss Fiander, Scarlet’s best friend, and asked if I could visit that morning. She replied: Any time after ten. So very sorry, Molly.

  To reach my car, I routinely take the scenic route down the garden where I have a home office over a carport. This is where I park the vehicular love of my life, a flashy white Fiat 500.

  Except that morning it was no longer white.

  With a hand clamped to my mouth, I gaped at what I could see of the bonnet, which wasn’t very much through a slurry of mashed flesh and bone. Reminiscent of a scene from The Walking Dead gore and shiny intestines spattered the windscreen. The smell, in the high temperature, was one of rotting meat and decay.